A's and B's
by Graph
Summary: He dreamt of A, mostly. The electric feel of A’s kiss against his once virginal lips, the addictive, erotic pleasure of bare skin against skin. In dreams, death was of little hinderance. AxB
1. arrival

So, this was home.

B just marveled at the mahogany door for a few seconds, capturing it, knowing he'd look back on this moment for years. His hand slid across the brass doorknocker, and gently, he tapped it against the unforgiving wood. The knock echoed due to the door's size, rattling the inlaid stained glass windows.

B was faintly surprised. He hadn't expected Wammy's House to actually be the ruins of an ancient church. He'd passed it off as a myth, no more believable than the idea that L clones droned around behind those doors. This place was no less than legend; its association with the great detective L was hardly a secret. So, naturally, Wammy's House had its own share of ghost stories.

He'd been there for fifteen minutes, and already one had been proven true. B shivered.

The massive doors pried themselves open, and an elderly man stepped out from inside. His skin was wrinkled and speckled with various moles and birthmarks, and he wore thick glasses over his beady, squinted eyes. He was balding steadily, and what remained of his grey hair had spread to his upper lip, in the form of a shaggy moustache. He glanced at B, nodded, and beckoned him closer.

"Beyond Birthday, I presume."

"Yes," he muttered. "but I prefer B. I hate my name."

The man shrugged. "Whatever suits you, sir. Are those your only bags?" He gestured to the crammed plastic shopping bags clutched against B's chest.

"Y-Yes." Only now did B bother noticing the man's name. The familiar milky letters swayed above his head: _Quilish Charleston Wammy_. The founder. B cursed his stupidity; he had been rather cavalier with his new caretaker. "I can handle it."

"Very well. Please address me as Watari." Wammy spoke with an English accent, hoarse with age. Something about him radiated class and wisdom. And, perhaps, a tinge of subtle patronization.

It dawned on B as he ducked behind the door and into Wammy's House. Wammy looked just like a butler, the kind who always made cameos in murder mysteries and spy flicks. The kind that were usually the killer.

This morning, B was visibly shaking with excitement. He had convinced himself that anywhere – especially a high-class place like Wammy's – was better than his old foster home.

Now, he was rather unsettled. Wammy's was an old deserted church in the middle of nowhere, staffed by a geezer and wrapped in secret. And he had yet to see anyone orphan-age.

Watari seemed to sense his fear. "All the children are outside. They've organized a large game of tag, or so I've heard."

B followed him down a series of elegant hallways, wallpapered and adorned with lamps and vases. Marble tile clicked underfoot, and the yellowish light of the interior gave Wammy's House a stuffy, proud aura. So far, the place had certainly lived up to its reputation – old, creepy, and frilly. Similar to its owner, B thought with a smirk.

The hallway opened up to a small parlor, a cozy room with a few chairs and a fireplace. One of the chamber's walls was an oversized sliding glass door, leading to a massive grass lawn. Watari gently pried it open, and stepped aside, letting B pass through and out into the sun.

The Wammy's House backyard was more of a small ranch. Endless manicured greenery stretched out before B, giving the illusion of freedom. Instinctively, he sprinted away from Watari, relishing the feeling of wet grass beneath his sneakers. He sped over a few hills, keeping up the breakneck pace until he reached a chain-link fence. The boundary seemed so far away, like he could run for miles before the fence held him back.

The sound of juvenile yelling jerked B out of his trance. Watari was right – a mob of (pre?) teens were scattering themselves across the field, shrieking with terror and joy, immersed in some kind of game. B hadn't the slightest idea of what they were playing, but it looked worlds more entertaining than tag. A brutish, thickly built boy nearly tackled him as he watched the chaos unfold, and B was abruptly jerked from his thoughts.

As Bruce Walters (for that was his name) brushed his shirt off, B summoned the courage to speak to him.

"What are you playing, and may I join…?"

He shrugged. "Sure. It's called Suicide Tag, AKA Everyone's It. You know how to play?"

B sighed, suddenly feeling extremely ignorant. "…No."

"Well," Walters muttered, gesturing to the frenzied game, "it's like normal tag, but everyone's it."

B smirked slightly. It was mutually assured destruction… unless he could psyche the other orphans out. Since he was new, it would be a cakewalk. He could win. "Sounds… great. I'm in."

Walters turned to face the majority of the tag-players. He let loose a bellow, the sound carrying a shocking distance. "HEY, _GUYS!_ WHITE-SHIRT'S IN!"

B couldn't help but chuckle.

And, suddenly, Walters was upon him. B hadn't even seen him move. He'd barely had time to flinch and curse as he heard a muffled "Tag!", and felt a tug at his shirt sleeve. As quickly as he had joined the game, he'd lost it. Dejected, B sank to the grass, sitting cross-legged as the other "out" children did. The first rule of Suicide Tag: Be aware.

With little else to do until the next round, B adjusted himself and picked a random tag-player to watch. He decided on a lanky boy, one of the older children, with a black collared shirt and grass-stained jeans. His boots trampled the lawn as he nimbly avoided a noticeably younger attacker, retaliating with a tag-back. Collared-Shirt (B was too far away to see his name) won the little skirmish, but was promptly charged by another Wammy's kid. A few others began to gang up on Collared-Shirt, but he was consistently one step ahead of them, both literally and metaphorically.

He was one of the important kids, B decided. That was why he was being sought out; he was a local celebrity. Athletic enough to outrun the sporty kids, and intellectual enough to outsmart the strategists.

Collared-Shirt tagged out another batch of orphans, leaving only two left standing. The survivors simultaneously tagged each other, as if agreeing that surrender surpassed failure, and Collared-Shirt was officially the winner. He whooped victoriously, his voice the cracked, wavy pitch of adolescence, and did a sort of spontaneous jig. He looked incredibly silly, B thought. Cocky, too – he had essentially expected to win. Collared-Shirt would make a worthy opponent, and, if B managed to defeat him, even in a simple game of Suicide Tag, it would gain him some renown.

After finishing his victory dance, Collared-Shirt let out a call for Jail Break, meaning the start of the next round. The tagged masses of kids rose from their grassy seats, and the game returned to its usual hectic mess. B stumbled to his feet, and immediately began to seek out Collared-Shirt, using the chaos as a means of camoflauge. It was pure luck that he wasn't tagged as he darted into the fray, eyes searching frantically for that dark shirt and those heavy-duty boots (they were ridiculously tough-looking shoes, B thought).

B found his target in the back-left corner of the field, panting and resting from what must have been a tagging bloodbath. Ten or so children were seated around him, fresh victims of a master tag-player. Collared-Shirt himself stood hunched-over, gripping his knees and trying desperately to catch his breath.

B skidded to a halt a few feet from the teen, adopting a vicious pose and crouching low to the ground. His amber eyes locked with his opponent's – a striking jade green – and he took a quick pace towards Collared-Shirt. He responded with a tentative step back, a worried smirk flashing briefly across his lips.

"I wouldn't… do that. I'm… pretty… fast." He paused for breath between words.

"Any game can be won with superior intelligence," B replied coolly, taking another step towards Collared-Shirt.

"I never said I _run_ fast." He sidestepped B, not willing to lose any ground. "I do, for the record. But you're right; that's immaterial in _tag_." The term "biting sarcasm" seemed to fit the boy's quote, as his humor stung B.

Not willing to waste any time with witty remarks, B dove in for the kill, seeking to tag him on the chest. Collared-Shirt sensed the move a moment before B lunged for him, and slid back on his heels, sucking in his stomach and barely missing B's outstretched fingers. He laughed quietly as B was knocked off-balance by his own momentum, but Collared-Shirt had to wave his arms just to keep himself from falling.

B recoiled, and swatted again, but this time, his enemy was ready. He ducked away from B, twisted around to flank him, and tagged B in the side of his ribcage. It was more of a poke, and B flinched, drawing back in discomfort. After processing what had happened, he let out a groan, and fell to the lawn, landing on all-fours.

Collared-Shirt chuckled, and B reluctantly turned to face him.

"You really wanted to tag me, huh? Why?"

B shrugged. "You looked well-respected among your peers. I figured, if I could beat you, it would be impressive."

He smirked again, though more wholeheartedly. "Yeah, it would be. …Huh. It just dawned on me; you're new here, right?"

"Yes. I've only been here for an hour or so."

"Ah. That explains a lot." He extended a hand to B, pulling him to his feet as B mistakenly shook it. B brushed dew from his jeans, and released Collared-Shirt's grip. It was the first time he allowed himself a long look at the teen.

He wasn't as tall as B had originally imagined – about 5'7" or 8". It was a trick of the eye, as he wore a long, slim button-down shirt (which also gave him a slightly feminine figure, but he managed to pull it off). The cuffs of his sleeves were doubled-up, giving the appearance of cufflinks, and the ankles of his faded dark-wash jeans were tucked tightly into his leather boots. His hair, a deep, nearly-black coffee brown, fell loosely to the nape of his neck in the shaggy remnants of a long-ago bowl-cut. He'd gotten it layered since then, B could tell, because a few of the rougher strands obscured his eyes, and the edges of his locks were frayed. Freckles spotted his off-white skin, collecting along the outline of his cheekbones. His eyes, though – they were probably his best feature. They reflected the sunlight gorgeously, taking the color of sea glass, and were bright with curiosity.

Whitish text wafted above him. _Aidan Emory McFarland_.

"Name's Aidan McFarland. Never call me that and I'm sure we'll get along." He grasped B's hand and shook it firmly. "I go by A, as in, the letter."

"Beyond Birthday, likewise. I'm B." He felt his hand go limp in A's grip, and suddenly felt extremely small.

"B? Heh. That seems a little _too_ convenient, don't you think?" He grinned and released B, wiping his hand off on his jeans. "You have your room assignment yet?"

"Room 14," he replied meekly, posture sinking lower to the ground.

"For cereal? I'm Room 14. I haven't had a roommate since last summer, when we got into that gang shooting… blood and shotgun shells everywhere…" He trailed off, a distant, clouded look in his eyes. A stared into space, lifting his hand to grip his chin in thought.

B took a cautious step back, eyes wide with shock. "They died?"

He broke into a fit of giggling, serious façade vanishing. "Dude, I can't believe you bought that. I've never had a roommate, largely due to the fact that my room is farthest from the front door, and no one bothers dragging their suitcase a few extra feet for my benefit. …A and B. Pre-tty special." A clapped B on the back, smirk fading slightly. "Just for the record: I'm bisexual, I'm Irish, I'm not in any gangs or cults, I'm Catholic, I have only done weed once, I'm 16, my favorite color is green, I'm not a virgin, and, in America, I support the Democrats." He chuckled hoarsely. "Though not in that order."

B peeled A's arm from around his shoulders. "I'm 14, in the Witness Protection Program, agnostic, and I don't enjoy being touched." He attempted a smile.

"Oh… sorry about that, then." A drew back, instantly sending a pang of guilt through B. "But… the big W-P-P? You're in some serious shit, my friend."

B lowered his voice, and stared intently at his sneakers. "I was, at one point. Now… I suppose I'm in more moderate shit."

A stifled a laugh. "I think I like you, B. Meet me at supper, in the dining hall. I'll give you the grand tour."

The game long forgotten, A strode away, leaving B to sort out his thoughts.

* * *

The main cafeteria of Wammy's House did not disappoint. It was a massive hallway, originally the chapel of an old church. The arched, intricate ceiling and unnecessarily high walls made for an aesthetically appealing, unusually large lunchroom, with more than enough space for the student body. Five industrial-size lunch tables stretched down the length of the chamber, each place set with silverware and china plates. The menu was fixed (B would have been shocked if it hadn't been), but tonight's dish – lasagna – sounded edible.

B intentionally arrived a few minutes late for dinner, waiting for the various Wammy's cliques to solidify before choosing a seat. He took a few moments to look around, the gorgeous architecture more interesting than the trays of food being passed amongst the students. He then scanned the crowd, searching out the brunette boy – A, he'd called himself – and found his target at the end of the farthest table from the doorway. He sat casually, with the same confident posture, despite the fact that he was almost completely alone.

Cautiously, B waved to him. He grinned and waved back, then beckoned B over.

B took a seat across from him, fidgeting slightly. He felt unreasonably out of place, in this classy school, across from someone who seemed to genuinely want to be his friend. He stared at the floor, then the tablecloth.

"Hey…?"

B jolted, and looked up, making eye contact with A. "Oh, hi. You wanted to see me?"

A picked uninterestedly at his heaping plate of lasagna, twirling his fork into the cheese. "Well, you're my roomie. We should get to know each other. I mean, you seemed like a decent guy earlier…"

B sighed, and helped himself to some of the pasta. A was just being friendly, and B had already managed to shoot down what could be his first real friendship. He hated his awkwardness.

"Oh… Of course. Forgive me for being a poor conversationalist; I'm an introvert."

A playful, subtle grin stretched across A's lips. "Ah, don't worry. You'll get used to me."

B nodded quietly. "You said you'd give me a tour…?"

"Oh! Right, right. After supper; don't let me forget. Have you seen your – er, our – room yet?"

"No…" He paused to take a bite of lasagna (which tasted far better than he expected). "But Watari brought my bags up. I spent the last few hours in the main study hall, checking out textbooks and reading."

"You read? Heh… I don't know why that surprises me. I don't have the attention span, y'know?" A sipped his drink, a mostly-flat Coke.

B didn't know, but nodded anyway. "Tell me about Wammy's. Whatever you think I should know about it."

"Alright… Lessee. This entire place was an old church, until Watari bought it. He spent a while renovating it, and then opened it as the Wammy's House Orphanage, where he raised the guy now known as L. Watari himself is supposedly an inventor, who managed to amass a fortune over the years, and decided to start tinkering with people instead of fuses and wires." A made a few subtle hand gestures as he spoke, his manner casual. B couldn't entirely understand him, but got the gist of things. "I'm the first participant in something called the Second L program, which is basically training to become L's successor. It's kind of a bummer, really…" He took a gulp of Coke. "I know they picked me 'cause I'm supposedly a genius. But, dear Lord, they really heap on the assignments… Anyway, Wammy's House is as close as most people can get to Detective L, and you do get pretty damn close."

B listened, fascinated. The rumors were true. "So, anyone can be in the Second L program?"

"Nah, I think L or Watari has to tap you for it. But you seem pretty clever. I wouldn't be shocked if they made you runner-up."

The edges of B's lips curled into a smile, as he was irrationally flattered. He covered his mouth to hide his grin. "But… You've only just met me. How would you know?"

A stabbed his lasagna. "Just from my first impression of you, I guess. I dunno. You just look like the kind of guy who does really well in life, despite a lack of tag-playing ability." He chuckled to himself.

"…Thank you," B muttered sincerely, meeting A's eyes briefly before going back to his food.

A seemed like a passable roommate. Maybe even a friend. There was something unidentifiably appealing about him, some strange quality B couldn't quite put his finger on. Perhaps it was his endearingly imperfect grin, or his clear, adolescent voice. Maybe it was the subtle, joking tone of his dialect, or the way the cafeteria lighting echoed in his eyes.

Or maybe B was being just a bit too observant.

No, A was just being friendly. That was all. He was likeable.

A likeable kid, who just happened to enjoy eating alone.

"So, when do you wanna leave?" A interrupted his thoughts.

B stirred, caught off-guard. "Ahm… Whenever you want to."

The older boy smiled awkwardly, ruffling his own hair. "Well, I mean, I just thought I'd ask. You've been staring blankly at me like that for the last fifteen minutes." He glanced down at his now empty plate of lasagna, the sauce scraped from the silverware. His Coke was now little more than a light glass of discolored water.

"…Oh." B laughed quietly, forcing the sound. "Forgive me; I must have been lost in thought… Might we go on the tour now?"

* * *

"So, ah, this is my pad."

A motioned towards his room, arcing his arm in a sweeping motion. The dormitory was the epitome of a teenage lifestyle: clothes strewn messily about, posters advertizing the Beatles and the Rolling Stones tacked sloppily to the walls, blankets in a crumpled heap at the foot of a decrepit bunk bed. A glossy red ceiling fan rotated lazily above the two teens, fluttering the pages of the textbooks splayed out on the top bed bunk. The room was expansive, roughly the size of a small apartment, but seemed to contain everything needed or desired by a sixteen-year-old boy.

It was, despite all the mess and subtle imperfections, a palace.

B marveled at his new home for a moment, taking a few tentative steps and closing the door behind him. A darted nervously in front of him, brushing the debris from the bottom bunk of his bed. Assorted books, discarded articles of clothing, and various trinkets spilled out onto the floor, and A made a hurried, though honest, attempt at cleaning his room. B guessed he hadn't done so in months.

"A… I love it."

A paused, glancing over his shoulder at his roommate, before sweeping another armful of discarded clothing from the floor. "Huh?"

B smiled, the feeling of his lips in that unfamiliar shape slowly becoming less painful. "Your room. I love it. It feels," he whispered, stroking his hand tenderly over the bunk bed's ladder. "like home."

"…Oh." A ruffled his own hair, chuckling awkwardly. "Cool. Is the bottom bunk alright for you?"

B nodded, taking a tentative seat on the foot of his new bed. After a brief, though awkward silence, A joined him, and began fishing through his pockets. He produced a hot pink plastic egg, which he popped open to reveal a greenish blob.

"Silly Putty," A explained. "Probably my favorite thing in the universe." He mashed the compound between his fingers, stretching and twisting it in his palm. "Helps to keep my focused."

B reached out for the toy, poking it with the tip of his index finger. "I used to have some as a child. I haven't seen it in years."

A smirked. "Y'wanna piece?" He tore a hunk from the glob.

B held out his hand expectantly, and grinned as he felt the slimy novelty upon his skin. A glared at him.

"Well, aren't you going to name it?" He said it so matter-of-factly.

"No…?" B shrugged.

A motioned to his handful of putty. "This is Charlie, so we'll call yours… Charlene?"

B, far too fascinated by the chemical compound to really care, simply nodded. He saw something in the gift – something monumental, prophetic. It was a toy, a novelty, and nothing more. He knew this. But it was the willingness with which A gave it, and perhaps the unique nature of the putty itself, that struck him. Putty was formless, and it could change with even the slightest outward stimulus. It never remained, and never became dull.

It was him, in a sense.

B gingerly placed his glob of putty on his new bed, praying it wouldn't stick. "A… Would you mind showing me to my classes tomorrow?"

"Why, you worried you'll get lost?" A began to clear space in his dresser, emptying a drawerful of garbage into a plastic trash bag.

"No." B paused, choosing his words carefully. "I just… enjoy having someone to talk to." He immediately averted his eyes to the floor, already regretting his display of weakness.

A just smiled. "See you bright n' early, then."

((**A/N**: _Oh, my God, so very very sorry about the double spacing. I'll fix that ASAP.))_


	2. adaptation

The weeks passed quickly for B, little more than a pleasant blur of luxury and discovery. Wammy's House was not a shelter, not an orphanage, not even a boarding school to him. It was his home. A place of safety, warmth and comfort.

Despite its reputation, the classes at Wammy's were no more difficult than those of an ordinary school. B barely devoted any of his attention to his grades, as they seemed to naturally regulate themselves. He was left with the perfect scenario: a best friend, a beautiful home, and hours and hours of free time. It was paradise, and B quickly acclimated to the mentality of his new surroundings. Survival was a given. Perhaps life could be _fun_.

As the days flew by, and late summer gave way to fall, A and B became inseparable. They would frequently make midnight runs to a nearby convenience store, spending their accumulated spare change on energy drinks and strawberry Twizzlers. A was a controlling factor in B's life, and he accepted that reality; he had always thought friends to be a sign of weakness, but with A in his life, so much more was possible. The unconditional trust A seemed to have for B was a completely new idea for him, and he took great comfort in the stability A loaned him. A was always so encouraging, so enthusiastic. B admired him for that.

B was naïve then.

* * *

The crisp autumn air stung B's cheeks as they walked, the breeze chilling him through his thin hoodie. A was utterly undaunted, as always, and walked at a slightly quicker pace than B, wearing nothing more than his typical collared shirt.

"So… How did you end up here, anyway?" He cast a casual glance at B. "Assuming you don't mind telling."

B increased his pace. "My father was killed during a mugging. My mother and I joined the Witness Protection Program. That's why I have such an unusual name. I gave it to myself when I was relocated. My mother didn't mind; she had hoped it would cheer me up." He paused, sighing. "I was very young. I don't even remember my birth name, and, thanks to the U.S. Government, I'll never know it. They've destroyed all documents linking back to my original identity. I suppose it was for the best, even though my mother didn't live much longer than my father. She was killed in a train accident."

A slowed himself, allowing B to catch up. "That's awful, man. Really. Do you miss them?"

"Yes. But… I never really got to know them. My memories of them are quite muddled. After my mother died, the government placed me with a foster home. I lived with the Masons, a family of 9. I was highly outcast by the older children, and, when they began to become violent, I ran away. I was quickly caught by Child Protective Services, and adopted by Wammy's." He paused for breath. "Or so I believe."

The two walked in solemn silence, reaching a turning point in the boundary fence before breaking the tension. The sun desperately tried to pry through the overcast clouds, but the mood remained dark and sober.

"Why are you here?" B finally muttered.

"My father was a raging drunk, and my poor Mum was too meek to do anything about it." A subtle hint of Irish accent snuck into A's wavering voice. "I had a little sister, too. She was too young to understand all the appaling, despicable things her daddy did. He was an orgre of a man. And no one had the guts to stand up to him. One night, he came back from the bar early. He was bloodied and spouting obscenities – I think he lost a fight – and he stumbled into the house, grabbed his gun, and held it to Mum. We were terrified. He ordered us into his car, spitting and swearing... We did as he said – Little Sis, Mum and I – and he drove off. Said we were moving to London. He only drove a few miles before he slammed headlong into oncoming traffic. Our car rolled. I swear to God, only my seatbelt saved me. And when we came to a stop, my father's innards were spilled over the dashboard, and my Mum had been speared by glass. Little Sis was alive, but bleeding from a gash in her neck. I held her as she died." He shook his head sadly. "I was ten. My sister hadn't even turned four."

B flinched. "Oh…"

"After that, the government came and got me. I lived in a hellhole of an orphanage for a few years, then came here." A smiled weakly. "But things are better now, right?"

"Yes. …Better." The words seemed forced from B, and they were – he didn't want to drag on what had been a few painful minutes. Still, he couldn't quite bring himself to look A in the eye, and he concentrated on his sneakers.

"Yeah. This sucks, doesn't it?" A laughed, his smile flashing from serene to semi-psychotic. "Haha. Yeah. It does. Because, while we've lost everything, while we know what it truly means to suffer…" His grin completely faded. "Wammy's is a new kind of oppressive, stuck-up shithole. Hilarious, right? Haha." He spat into the grass beneath their feet. B shivered, suddenly freezing.

"Are you okay?" he offered, concerned.

"Ah… Of course." A ran his hands through his hair. "Yeah, B. I just got carried away. Pretty stupid."

"Oh, no… I agree with you," B replied. "Or, I would, were I in your position. I can scarcely imagine the stress."

"True, that." A fell silent, the hatred drying from his expression like rubbing alcohol from a wound. B sincerely hoped their walk would end; it was cold outside, yes, but he was sure that he would have been shaking just as violently anywhere else.

* * *

B threw back a few mouthfuls of Red Bull as if it were shot liquor, shuddering audibly from brainfreeze and digging his toes into the beige carpet floor. Only the trace amounts of caffeine kept him awake. Yawning, he glanced up at A, who had collapsed onto the bottom bunk of their bed.

He couldn't procrastinate any longer. A needed to know.

"Hey. Are you awake?"

A let out a bedraggled moan in response. "Yeeahhhmmm…?"

"I need to tell you something." B hoped to convey a somber tone.

"'Kay. What?" A mumbled without sitting up.

"A, it's serious. Get up and look at me."

He groaned and propped himself up on a pillow, brushing his hair out of his eyes. B could barely make out his expression in the dim lighting. "Alright, alright. I'm listening."

B composed himself, hugging his knees to his chest. "This will be hard to believe. Impossible, even. You just have to trust me."

"Spit it out."

He locked eyes with A. "For as long as I can remember, I have seen numbers floating above the heads of every person I've ever met, along with their full name. The meaning of the numbers is unclear to me… Though I have reason to believe that it's a date or time."

A smirked, and waved his hands over his head, the glowing text wafting in the breeze. "So, like, right now, my hands are touching holographic numbers?"

"Your hand appears to pass through them, like an illusion. But they are very real to me." B dropped his voice to a whisper. "Sometimes they really scare me. I don't know why – they're just numbers – but I think they'll continue to scare me until I understand them."

"And… You've always seen them, over everyone's head?"

"If I have seen their face, I immediately see their name and a set of numbers. I only ask for names out of courtesy, Aidan Emory McFarland."

A raised his eyebrows. "Shit. You're not kidding, are you? So… Those numbers. What do they mean?"

"Like I mentioned earlier," B replied with a slight note of annoyance, "I don't yet know. But they're arranged like a timestamp, with ten numbers indicating the date, and six numbers indicating the time. The only problem is that I've seen people who have large numbers in the month numeral slot – numbers far larger than twelve. So I am lead to believe there is some kind of formula." He trailed off, eyes catching A's baffled and hazy expression. "…Of course, this is all just conjecture. A hunch. For all I know, the numerals may just be their credit card numbers or something like that." B shrugged. "But of the names I am certain."

A yawned. "Sorry, sorry, I was paying attention… Really. That's freaky. Is there anything else?"

"My vision often goes reddish, as if I were seeing the world through the red lens of a pair of cheap 3-D glasses. But it corrects itself within a few minutes, until the red tint returns."

"Damn. Hallucinating is one thing… You get colorblind like that, you're stuck being colorblind." A snickered to himself.

A pang of anger seared B's heart. "They're more than just hallucinations! I swear to God, I'm not just making this up! …I was a fool to think that you'd believe or support me, A. Forgive my mistake."

B covered his eyes and sank to an awkward lying-down position on his stomach. Fury was an uncomfortable new sensation, and, his rage spent, he was too ashamed to hazard a glance at A. "Sorry."

Suddenly, he felt the touch of a human hand on his shoulder, and instinctively tried to pull away. He accidentally dragged his attacker closer, and A landed on top of him, hand still clinging good-naturedly to his friend's arm. A gave B a gentle hug around the waist and released him, recalling his discomfort with people touching him.

"I may not understand what you're going through, but I believe you. Maybe you're crazy. Maybe the numbers are real, and you're just the only person who can see them. I don't know, and I won't pretend to. But I do know that that kind of admission can seriously fuck a person up, no matter how sane they were to begin with."

"To begin with…?" B shifted himself to face A. "What are you talking about?"

There was a long pause as A gathered his words, a terrified glint in his expression. He took a deep breath, and fished a small plastic egg from his pocket. The egg popped open to reveal a glob of Silly Putty, which A began to knead between his fingers. It seemed to calm him, but the putty was taking a serious beating.

"Look… I, uh, I'm bipolar." The sixteen year old hid his eyes in his dark locks. "Bipolar II, to use the proper terminology. You know what that is?"

"I've heard of it. It's a mental illness, but that's the extent of my knowledge."

"To put it simply, being bipolar is like having chronic, dangerous mood swings. There are two stages in most cases – mania and depression. I switch cycles every two to three weeks, with a few days of normalcy in between. You've only seen me during a manic cycle so far; that is, I experience mania as a period of elevated mood and increased mental productivity. If I was always manic, I would already be working with L. But I'm not, which is the major downside of being bipolar: depression. I'm going to head into a depression cycle in a few days, which you'll see as a personality change. I'll be more distant and cold, and you may not even recognize me as the A you knew a week ago. But that's why I needed to tell you. No matter what happens, know that it's not your – or anyone's – fault. I'll just need some space until another manic cycle starts."

A made it all sound so minor, so insignificant. But his body language couldn't hide his shame. He slumped over a pile of pillows, making sure to hide his eyes.

"Isn't there treatment?" B blurted, curiosity taking priority over tact.

"Yeah. Medication and therapy. But I hate my shrink, and the meds… God, B, if they figure out you see numbers and names, they'll drown you in meds. Me? My pills put a massive fog over my mind. Like trying to think and live in slow-motion. It was horrible, way worse than my original condition. So, Watari convinced the doctors to let me off the hook. But there are still times when the bad cycles get to me, and, awful as the meds were, I wonder if keeping my intelligence is worth enduring my condition without them."

"That's… terrible," B mumbled, eyeing his friend with newfound respect. "I had no idea."

"Well," A chuckled, "you've got screwey eyes. I'm pretty sure you got the worse deal. I mean, that's gotta suck. I don't blame you for being so quiet all the time."

"Yes… But it's something I live with, like you and your… condition." B attempted a smile. "It helps having a friend. You're the first person to believe me."

A raised what remained of his Red Bull, swirling the can as if it were wine. "I'll toast to that." Without waiting for B to toast, he pressed the soda to his lips, and downed the whole thing in a few seconds.

When he finished, A slouched back onto a pillow and whispered a "goodnight", leaving B alone with his insomnia.

* * *

((A/N: Alrighty, let's just hope this thing makes sense. I wrote A's and B's backwards, from end to beginning, so if there are any continuity errors, please, please, please, with strawberry jam on top, let me know. Critique is good, people.

Also, I just wanted to say that this whole shebang is dedicated to my dear friend, xtifaxfinalxheavenx. She's responsible for a good deal of A's character, as well as this illustration of him (see below). Through the good and the bad, she never ceases to inspire me, and deserves as much credit for this as me. We've been through a lot, but thankfully, we've both been a bit luckier than A or B. So, this is for you, Tifa. 3

.


	3. mutation

"I despise rainy days."

A's voice held a sarcastic dismay, and he seemed to take his boredom out on the pitiful glob of Silly Putty pressed between his fingers. He tossed it, caught it, and threw it again, an idle exercise for his hands. After a few minutes of silence, he prompted B for a reply.

"Hey, B. Are you as bored as I am?"

B's uninterested response came from the bottom bunk of their bed. "Not really. I'm reading a good book. I actually don't mind rainy days."

A sighed, losing his concentration and flinging the Silly Putty far higher than he intended. The wad soared above his bed, and stuck itself to the ceiling, a neon green dot sticking out from the off-white paint. A smirked. Perfect.

"Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. My putty is stuck on the ceiling. Help me."

A soft sigh floated up from B's bunk. "You can reach it."

"But, I can't," he whined. "It's on the ceiling, B. The ceiling!"

"You are taller than me. If you can't reach it, how could I?" was the slightly peeved response.

"Oh, come on. Don't pretend you're immersed in that book of yours. What are you reading, anyway?"

"_War and Peace._"

A scoffed. "And you say you're too busy for me."

"Alright, alright, you win. I'll help." The sound of B's (evidently massive?) book slamming shut could be heard, and he soon began to climb the stepladder between the two bunks. The younger teen's head popped up next to A's bed, and he staggered onto the mattress. His gaze lifted to the ceiling, eyes fixing on the green mass that was somehow defying gravity. Shakily, B stood, toes gripping the squishy mattress pads, and reached up towards the putty. The tips of his fingers managed to brush the edge of the wad, and he swatted it down towards the ground. Though the putty landed safely on the foot of A's bed, the sudden move knocked B off-balance, sending him toppling over backwards – directly onto A.

B let out a quiet gasp as he tackled his friend, scrambling madly to his hands and knees. A only flinched at the sudden contact, but was soon chuckling good-naturedly.

He held out his hand for the putty, smiling casually at B. "Charlie thanks you for rescuing him."

"Ah… Sorry for crushing you." B retrieved the neon glob from the edge of the top bunk bed, and passed it to A, the older teen's infectious grin slowly creeping onto the younger's features.

"It's fine. You're a klutz, but… You can manage." A began to knead the putty again, mashing it through his fingers. "Speaking of klutzes… You wanna play Twister, B? That'd be fun."

"Twister…?" B cracked his neck to the left, watching Charlie the Putty's torture blankly. "I've never heard of it."

"You've never heard of Twister?" A asked, raising an eyebrow. "Then, we _have_ to play." He squirmed, crawled over to the edge of his bed, and started down the ladder. Cautiously, B followed – his book had gotten rather boring, despite his earlier comments – and descended to the floor.

A sank to his hands and knees, and began rummaging through the mysterious nook beneath B's bed bunk. After a few moments of feeling around, he pulled a white, square box from the darkness. A large logo was printed across it, reading _Twister_ in obnoxious red lettering.

B groaned. It was a board game. A _board game_. The things of decrepit day-cares, not high-class orphanages (unless they were, as B was beginning to suspect, the same thing). Board games were the lowest of the low on the hierarchy of rainy-day time-killers.

Still, A's incessant grin had yet to lead B wrong, and he seemed elated to see the game come out. The older teen opened the box, and removed a folded up mat from it. He spread the polka-dotted tarp out on the carpeted floor, smoothing the wrinkles, and pried a spinner from the bottom of the game box. B noticed that those two items were the entire game; perhaps he'd been too quick to judge.

"Okay, see the giant polka-dots on the mat? They correspond with this spinner-thingy." A held up the square of cardboard, flicking the arrow and spinning the spinner. "Basically, you just do what the arrow tells you to. It's pretty simple."

B followed the arrow with his eyes, before casting an uneasy glance at A. "So, the object of the game is to… follow the directions?"

"For as long as you can," A chucked, setting the spinner on the carpeted floor. "It's a deceptively hard game… But fun, nonetheless."

"Alright… But if this is painful or degrading, I'm going to hold it against you." B reluctantly shut his book, and crawled to the floor, placing his feet delicately onto the mat. He was careful to align himself precisely with the row of red dots.

"Oh, you better believe it will be. But that's the point. …I'll go first." A snickered, clearly enthused at the idea of B embarrassing himself. He picked two dots at random, positioned himself on the mat, and spun the spinner, his expression taking on a somewhat mischievous note. "Alright… Right-hand-red. Easy-peasy."

B edged forward, and spun. "So… That would be, right-foot-green, correct?"

A nodded, and B slid his foot obediently across the mat. This 'Twister' was a strange game.

"Alright… Left-foot-yellow." A frowned at the spinner, before adjusting himself. "Oh, come on. I can't do the _splits_…"

"Then, how will you win?" B flicked the spinner. "Right-hand-blue. Simple."

"It's just beginner's luck," A scoffed, before reaching for the spinner. "Ughh… Are you freaking cereal? Right-hand-yellow…"

"No," B hissed, batting at the arrow. "Just karma."

"Oh, be nice." A spun, his balance wavering. "I'll still win. I'm flexible. Right-foot-red…"

"Is that so? You seem rather shaky." B couldn't help but smile, as he pawed at the spinner. "Left-foot-blue…"

"Of course! I'm like… Silly Putty!" A edged his left hand onto a nearby yellow dot. "And you, B, are like…" He paused, as he realized how little personal space his roommate had.

"_Do not_ compare me to Silly Putty, A. Don't make this more humiliating than it needs to be. …Left-foot-green." B was focused intently on the game, his competitive spirit overpowering all need to protect his personal bubble.

A's smirk widened subtly at B's enthusiasm. "Fine. You're like… Play-Doh! I like Play-Doh almost as much as I like Silly Putty." The older teen barely managed to reach the spinner, his awkward position on the Twister mat difficult to maintain.

"T-Thank you, I suppose…" B began to tremble, his physical strength quickly failing him. "Left-hand-yellow…"

"Don't… mention it, buddy." A's voice was strained, and he struggled to support himself. He was sprawled over the mat, B splayed out under him, and had to not only keep himself from falling, but also from crushing B into the floor. The brunette boy lurched forward and smacked the spinner, letting out a triumphant sigh as his fingers touched the plastic. "Haha! Right-f—"

A's muscles suddenly gave, and he collapsed on top of B, mashing the younger boy's chest into the Twister mat. Unthinkingly, A immediately sat up, straddling B's hips and pinning him against the floor. A massive grin overtook the older boy's features, and he laughed softly to himself, amused by B's clear disgruntlement.

The feeling of A's weight above him began to send B into a miniature panic attack. A had not yet remembered his friend's deep-seated phobia of physical contact, but B remained confident that he would, and held his tongue, waiting for the memory to return. It didn't.

A propped himself up with his elbows, digging them into the small of B's back (which didn't hurt, he found, even though it should have). B lay flat on his stomach, the carpet beginning to imprint itself on his shirt. A smirked down at him.

"I think I won this little bout of Twister."

B's voice was shaky with anxiety. "I-Indeed."

As if simply to spite B's no-touching rule, A took a lock of the younger boy's hair and frayed it between his right thumb and index finger. Though B cringed, he found the sensation bearable… even pleasant. But his nervousness had barely begun to fade.

"I never lose Twister – even if I fall down first." A paused, glancing down at his friend. "You okay? You look a bit tense."

"Nuh.." B started as A took another handful of his hair. "No, I'm okay… Just a sore loser." The younger teen laughed weakly.

The playful smirk on A's lips faded into a soft smile, something B could barely see from the angle he was at. "So I've noticed." He adjusted himself and sat up, essentially straddling B. "Hey, dude, how old are you, again?"

"Fourteen and a half," was the meek reply.

"Huh. So you're not too young. That's neat…" A paused for a while, his breaths oddly irregular. "Hey, B, ever been kissed before?"

The question came out of the blue – but it almost seemed rehearsed to look spontaneous. B jolted, struggling under A's weight, unable to sit up but managing a whole-body flinch. "What? Why? And, ah… No. No, I haven't. …Too young for what, A?"

"Well, I mean, I was just wondering… You're two years younger than I am. I just didn't want to think I was going to kiss a twelve-year-old or anything…"

It was then that B realized he had been missing something brutally obvious. Something so ridiculously explicit that A had been forced to spell it out for him. But, even as the words tumbled awkwardly from the sixteen-year-old's mouth, and he slowly began to register what he had just blurted out, B's mind simply refused to believe it.

He tilted his head back, rolling his eyes up to catch a glimpse of A's expression. "What are you… What?"

"Er…" A reddish tint began to creep up A's cheeks. "Um… What? What about what? Question mark?" He laughed, the sound dripping with apprehension.

"Come on. Tell me." B's eyes glinted, his gaze as sharp as his tone.

"Tell you what?"

"A. Tell me. If you're willing to hide something from me, it has to be important."

He grinned weakly. "Fine, fine. I give up. But I can't tell you."

B narrowed his eyes, craning his neck even farther back to get a better look at his friend. He frowned quizzically. "You give up, but you won't tell me? Why?"

"Because, well… It'd be easier just to show you."

A drew in a quick breath, let his eyelids droop, and, with no less fluidity of motion than was typical for him, leaned in and kissed B. It was so sudden, so impromptu. B's head was practically inverted; he had been trying to make eye contact with the person directly above him.

And, there it was. Halfway inverted, on top of a Twister mat. Beyond Birthday's first kiss.

After the initial shock wore off, A deftly slid his tongue into the younger teen's mouth (which had been left open in a sort of gasp). B resisted instinctively, nearly breaking the kiss, his paranoia almost getting the best of him. But, after a moment or two, the sensation turned from horrifying to off-putting to enthralling, and B made a feeble, though honest attempt at reciprocating. He sank his clawed fingers into the Twister mat, the kiss heating up. An eternal four seconds passed before A broke away, needing a breath.

"So… yeah. There you go."

B managed to wedge himself out from under A, only to roll onto his back and slide back under his friend. He was now facing A, who was still straddling him. The fourteen-year-old could only bring himself to utter one word, his voice thick with an indistinct emotion. "Why?"

A shrugged, the embarrassed grin still lingering on his face. He ran a hand through his chestnut hair. "I dunno. I guess you could blame hormones, but… Well, I just wanted to."

B's heart pounded in his chest, the sound of his pulse seemingly loud enough to echo. His eyes widened with anticipation, and his hands shook. Barely able to think, he slid his hands up A's chest and to his shirt collar, fingers wrapping around the neckline and gripping it fiercely.

"I meant… Why did you stop?"

Trembling with anxiety, B pulled his friend into a kiss, crashing his lips into A's. He flinched for a moment, taken off-guard, before kissing back, fiercely, passionately. B felt his eyes sink closed, nervousness fading to arousal. A's arms slid around his waist, and B inched closer to him.

A broke the kiss, pulling back an inch or two and breathing heavily. He smirked, his eyes half-lidded. "I dunno. I needed to see if you liked it."

B could only nod dumbly in response, his mind dulled by ecstasy. There was a brief pause, before A returned to the kiss, using his tongue a bit more heatedly. B interlaced his fingers around A's neck, pulling him an inch or two closer, and moaned quietly into the older teen's mouth. He felt A smile slightly, and shivered, before pulling away, shocked by his own panicked gasps for breath.

_This is too far_, he couldn't help but think. _I should stop. We need to stop. Something's not right. I can't do this. It's too much, too quickly._

_I want to stop but I can't._

B managed to whisper between pants. "Does this… feel wrong… to you…?"

A shook his head subtly, placing a couple kisses on B's jawline. "No, of course not," he murmured in his calming, sweetly adolescent voice. "Why? Does it feel wrong to you?"

"I…" B's breathing hitched at A's lips on his jaw, and his voice wavered. "I… I don't know… I don't think so…" He trembled fiercely, visibly shaking with an unclear mixture of apprehension and lust.

A smiled reassuringly, lessening B's shaking. "Then everything…" He paused, his grin turning from sincere to almost _hungry_. "…should go smoothly."

The older teen made a trail of light kisses down B's neck, ending near the neckline of his tee shirt. B sighed erotically, shuddering with pleasure at his touch. Gently (and with a noticeable amount of hesitation, B noted subconsciously), A took the bottom few inches of B's shirt in his hands, and lifted it up slightly, glancing up at B for confirmation. "Hey, buddy…?"

_No. Say no. Tell him he's gone too far. That you can't do this at fourteen._

He nodded, slipping one arm out of his shirt. Silent except for his irregular breathing, A bunched B's shirt up, and lifted it over his head, watching as B removed his remaining arm. After setting his shirt aside, B's eyes met A's, clouded with confusion and shameful desire.

The younger teen sat up fully, and hugged A close to his chest, kissing the hollow of his neck. His body quaked, his skin cold and clammy. He was terrified, but never before had he experienced so many emotions at once. He didn't know how much more of this he could take, but… he didn't want it to stop.

Inversely, A was relieved at B's meek participation. The last thing he wanted was sexual tension with a roommate, and he wasn't at all sure that B would respond. He let out a brief hum as B kissed him, satisfied that things were working out, and snogged him, working his tongue slowly into B's mouth.

B groaned softly as the familiar wave of pleasure crashed over him, loving A's taste (something like pure cane sugar, he later realized). He kissed him back, lustfully, praying that he didn't come off as a novice. His shaking hands became just a bit steadier, and B felt secure, comforted by the reassuring stability of A's chest. He clung even closer to A, the older boy's touch intoxicating.

_This… This is where I should draw the line. I let him take off my shirt, but that's all. It's not too late if I stop myself now._

His train of thought stopped abruptly as A began to grind his hips into B's, moaning into the kiss. B gasped at the sudden friction, his heart skipping a beat.

"Ah-_AH!"_

A held B more tightly as he tensed, in an attempt to calm him, but B broke away from their kiss. He opened his mouth to speak, but was so utterly winded that he physically couldn't. Chest still pressed against A, he panted heavily.

"Ah… A, I don't… I… can't…"

A blinked, his half-closed eyes a gorgeous, glossy jade in the faded light. He raised an eyebrow weakly. "Hnn… what is it, B?"

"I don't know…" _If I should do this. If this should feel so wrong, yet so painfully right. What my feelings for you are. Why you're here with me now, up against me, your lips on my skin. What will happen if I don't stop you. If I ever will._

He buried his face into A's neck, beating back tears. He managed to steady his voice for a moment, just barely long enough to mumble, "Please… don't leave me… don't stop."

A ruffled B's hair with his chin, trailing his fingers gingerly down the younger teen's back. "If you say so." He cupped B's face, and titled it up, to be at eye level with him again, before kissing him softly. B felt A's hips grind roughly against his pelvis, the denim of their jeans providing delicious heat and friction. His embrace tightened against A's shirt, and he felt his eyes begin to roll back. He managed to bite back a cry of agonizing pleasure, but a brief sigh escaped his lips.

A paused for a moment, reluctantly pulling away from what had been a satisfying kiss. His demure, delicate features twisted briefly into a worried frown. "Hey, are you sure you're okay with this? You're not looking too hot. Well, I mean, no, you look great—but, I mean… you're… Are you feeling okay?"

_Logic has no presence here. I'll figure things out tomorrow._

Or so would have been B's thoughts, if his mind hadn't gone numb from a newfound sexual desire.

"Yes… I want this," he managed, beginning to undo the top buttons of A's shirt. His better judgment was screaming at him to stop, but he didn't, couldn't. Releasing B, A reached down to help, unbuttoning the bottom half of his shirt.

As he caught his first true glimpse of A's body, B couldn't help but stare. A was lightly muscled, thin and lanky, as B had predicted. But the faint outline of his pectorals and abs were visible, and he had a sleek, beautiful build.

B was jerked from his thoughts as A slid his hips against his own, the flaps of fabric from the brunette's open shirt draping over him like a blanket. He bit his lip, trying desperately to hold himself back, but quickly gave in to A, and let loose a fairly loud moan. It tapered off into a sort of gag – the kind of noise a person usually makes when the wind is knocked from them – and A smirked triumphantly, more than a little proud of how well things were going with B. The older teen released the younger, slinking his hands around B's middle. His fingers began to unbutton B's jeans, and his eyes glinted in the dim light.

B barely noticed; he was preoccupied with regaining his breath. His pale, narrow chest heaved with panicked, enthralled pants, and the room began to spin around him. A unzipped B's jeans.

_He's going to go all the way with me._

He grasped the younger teen's pants by the waistband

_Am I going to let him?_

and slid them down his hips,

_Do I even have a choice?_

goosebumps rising on his skin,

_No! No, I'm too young!_

shivers rippling down his spine.

_But I don't want him to stop._

A fingered the edges of B's boxers

_Oh God wait wait wait I'm still not sure_

and tugged down on them sharply.

_Oh God oh God no too soon I can't_

"A… wait," B whispered weakly.

"Shhhh." A slid down B's boxers to his thighs, and B shuddered.

"Wait, wait, please, listen…"

The older teen leaned in, hissing seductively. "Oh, come on, don't tell me you can't handle it now."

B could feel himself growing lightheaded, and found that he was hyperventilating. "A, no, wait, stop…"

A's tone sharpened slightly. "C'mon, you'll be fine. I'll go easy on you."

"A, no, please, God, no, _no, no! Stop it!"_

A flinched, and drew back, eyes flicking up to meet B's worried stare. His hands went limp, and his shoulders sagged. "B…"

"A…" Unable to look at A, B focused on the carpet. "I'm sorry."

"No… No, don't be. It was my fault. I mean, you're fourteen." He paused, shaking his head to himself. "God… I'm such a dick. I'm sorry, B." Solemnly, he began to button up his shirt. "I'll leave you alone from now on, I promise."

"No…! Don't." Tears threatened to roll down B's cheeks, and he brushed them away with the back of his hand. He scooted closer to A, and hugged him close, burying himself into A's chest. "Can we just… stay like this… for a while?"

A ruffled his friend's hair gently, pressing B into his shoulder. He spoke softly, lovingly. "Sure, B. Anything for you."

B melted into his embrace, sobbing quietly. A slipped an arm around B's shoulders, holding him tightly. They stayed like that for hours, a tangled mess of mixed emotions, but perfectly secure in each other's arms.

That was the first time B really accepted that he was in love with A.

* * *

((**A/N: **_Oh, lord, forgive me for that filler about Twister. I am a lazy, lazy person. Anyway, please, people, have a heart. Review. And when I say review, I mean actually review. Fawning praise is nice, but if you don't tell me when I fuck up, quite frankly, I won't know when I've done a great job and when I've really phoned it in._

_As for the illustration of A, that's my avvie now, so you can see a little 150x150 pic of him in my profile. 3 _

_Thanks to xtifaxfinalxheaven for all the help she gave me with that scene. ily.))_


	4. selection

"Hey, B, what's the Roman Numeral for 89?"

B paused, before answering A. "LXXXIX. Why?"

A chuckled from the top bunk of their bed. "Why not?"

"Just get back to work, A. You're not helping anything." B returned to his algebra worksheet, absently solving for X.

A moaned. "Procrastinating is so much more _fun_, though! God, I hate case reports…" The sound of fingers on a keyboard filled any gaps in their conversation.

"Why you waited until the day before your report was due to actually write it… I'll never understand." B filled in a few more answers, tapping his pencil on the frame of his bed.

"Because… I'm not in a great mood." Furious typing. "And this isn't exactly cheery stuff. Some guy raped and murdered his daughter. I've gotta show the evidence correlation." He sighed, the typing unrelenting. "Fun, fun, fun, eh, B? You're fucking lucky."

"Why?" B was nearly done with the worksheet, barely giving it any thought. "I would be honored to be in the Second L program."

The typing stopped. "You're done with your homework, aren't you?"

"Almost," B blurted, not sensing the irritation in A's voice.

"What was it? Your homework, I mean. What did you have to do?" The anger in A's tone was clearer now.

"Two worksheets, and a book report I did yesterday." B tensed.

"That's all?" A's words were sharp.

"That's all," the younger teen murmured quietly. "A… Are you alright?"

"Fuck it, B! I've spent the last two weeks on this stupid fucking case, worshipped L like a fucking god, and lived with the knowledge that people die if I make a single mistake! I can't _take it!_ And And _you! _You have the _nerve _to _envy_ _me?_" A descended the bunk bed's ladder as he yelled, voice harsh with fury. He reached the floor, bent over into B's lower bunk, and grabbed his shirt by the neckline. Eyes wide with madness, A pulled B to his feet, drew back, and punched his friend in the jaw.

B cried out as he was struck, A's knuckles driving into his chin with staggering force. He stumbled back, keeping his balance momentarily before collapsing to the floor. A stood over him, panting with manic hatred. His features were contorted grotesquely by rage, his eyes bulging and lips curled back into a snarl. B stared up at his friend from the floor, frozen with terror. For a few seconds, there was silence, as the teens caught their breath.

The cruel look slowly faded from A, fury turning to shame as the realization sank in. His eyes regained their usual softness, and his posture relaxed. He let out a sigh, hanging his head. A few locks of his hair fell in front of his closed eyes.

"B… Oh, my God…" A's voice cracked, and he whispered. "I'm… so… sorry."

B kept his eyes fixed on the older teen, fear draining away from him. "A…"

A sank weakly to his knees, then fell forward onto his palms. His eyes were glued to the carpet. "B… I'm so sorry. I swear, it'll never happen again… Oh, God, I'm so sorry… I can't believe I…"

B's face was blank, and his voice emotionless. "A. As long as you don't hit me again, it's over. I forgive you. We can move on."

A raised his head. "I… I promise, I'll keep myself under control… I'll never hurt you again."

B nodded, then gave a frail smile. "Then we're fine." He stood, his legs trembling fiercely, and offered a hand to A. A took it gratefully, his usual calm quickly returning.

"You sure? We're cool now?" A muttered, using B to keep his balance.

"Of course… I don't know why you're so upset by it. Humans make mistakes." In an honest attempt to comfort the older boy, B hugged the side of his chest, fingers sinking into A's cotton polo shirt. He leaned up and kissed A's neck softly. "See, no reason to worry."

A closed his eyes in an elongated blink, leaning against B. "You know, I've heard make-up sex can do wonders after a fight…"

"Oh, shut up," B hissed playfully, tracing his fingers over the outlines of A's abdomen. "You have that case report to do…" He trailed off after a moment, relishing their close proximity and the subtle rhythm of A's breathing.

"Ahh, c'mon… We won't even get past second base, I promise…"

* * *

Watari glared at him, eyes expressionless and stony through the old man's thick lenses. "Your case report was late, A. That's unacceptable, and you know that."

A grimaced, brushing a stray lock of hair from his eyes. He fidgeted in his chair, averting his eyes to Watari's desk. "No offense, but I'm doing the best I can. I don't _like_ being a screw-up." He met the old man's gaze again, hesitantly. "I'm really trying, man. You gotta believe me."

"Your intentions couldn't matter less to me. As long as you continue to fall behind, you're irrelevant to L."

A cringed as Watari's words stung him. "Hey, shove off. You know I'm on a bad cycle. I can't help that-"

"Watch your tongue, A. You are being considered as an heir to L. It is, quite possibly, the most influential title in law enforcement today. Nothing less than excellence can be tolerated. Know your place, and complete your assignments on time." Watari's tone was sharp and unforgiving, and bleak, disapproving expression held firm. Silenced by his lecture, A turned from the old man and stood, taking a few steps towards the door. As he opened it, he craned his neck back, muttering under his breath just loudly enough for Watari to hear him.

"Perfection is an impossible standard, and holding me to it is just causing me stress. I know L isn't _that_ unreasonable. You probably don't even take orders from him anymore. He probably outgrew you… You and your little human experiments. I know I'm the guinea pig for this… Just know that I won't go quietly."

Watari cleared his throat and fingered his glasses. His voice was eerily calm.

"If you can't live up to the standards of Wammy's, I'll find you a more… _fitting_ home."

A spun on his heels. "You're kidding me. You'll kick me out for not being perfect?"

"Most humans only bother using a fraction of their full potential. If you must be motivated properly to perform… so be it. Wammy's owns you. I own you. And if I no longer want you, I'll choose who owns you next. Pick your fights carefully."

For a moment, A was stunned. They were… threatening him. _Him_. He had to do this. _Had to._ _Had to be perfect. Had to be perfect._ _And if he failed them… If he kept failing them…_

"I don't need your shit!" Defeat sinking in, A slammed the door to Watari's office in his face. He tore down the adjacent corridor, kicked his bedroom door open, and flung himself onto the bottom bunk of his bunk bed.

He held back for a few moments, but quickly broke into harsh, hateful sobs. He mashed his face into his pillow, holding it with a death grip, adjusting it when he needed to breathe. The tears, acidic with spite, burned his eyes, but he'd already decided that he was going to cry, and _really_ cry. Luckily, B wasn't around – it was bad enough to bawl into a pillow at sixteen, let alone in front of a kid who looked up to him.

The sickening dread that came with an off-cycle began to creep over him, his fury cooling to despair. His hands began to tremble, and he released the pillow. His thoughts raced; his mind tried desperately to sort things out, but his dysfunctional emotions overpowered him.

And in that horrifying, panicked moment of insanity, only one idea held firm.

* * *

((A/N: _Short chapter, I know. Just go with me here. Also, I'd just like to add... If you have bipolar disorder, and you have input for me on that subject, don't hesitate to let me know. I've got my own issues, but I am not bipolar, and I have nothing but respect for those with the bipolar condition. I don't want to offend. So let me know if I've gotten it totally wrong.))_


	5. eradication

_Sixteen, on the honor roll,_

_I wish that I was dead._

_Hate my parents, I got zits_

_And bruises 'round my head. _

_Pressure's on to get good grades_

_So I can be like them._

_Do my homework all the time_

_I can't go out just yet. _

_People, they ain't friends at all._

_They tease and suck me dry._

_Yell at me when I fuck up,_

_And party while I cry._

_I look so big on paper,_

_But I feel so very small._

_Wanna die and you don't care,_

_Just stride on down the hall! _

_Suicide, suicide,_

_Read the paper, wonder why,_

_Turn the light out, then you cry,_

_It's your fault, you made me die! _

_Touch me, won't you touch me now?_

_So frozen I can't love._

_When I was born my mama cried_

_And picked me up with gloves. _

_Girls, they kick me in the eye_

_Want answers to the tests._

_When they get them, they drive off_

_And leave me home to rest. _

_Hold my head,_

_Make me warm,_

_Or tell me I am loved._

_Give me hope,_

_Let me cry,_

_Make me feel,_

_Give me touch. _

_The window's broken, bleeding, screaming_

_Lying in the hall._

_I'm gone, no one remembers me;_

_A picture on the wall._

_"He was such a bright boy_

_The future in his hands:"_

_-Or a spineless human pinball_

_Shot around by your demands!_

_Suicide, suicide,_

_Goin' to sleep, and when I die,_

_You'll look up and realize,_

_Then look down and wipe your eyes,_

_Then go back to your stupid lives,_

_Ahhh, shit! _

_ --The Dead Kennedys_

His heart pounded in his chest as he stood, his body shaking with fear and the force of his sobs. His fingers fell to the waistband of his jeans, and he undid the buckle of his belt. The strip of leather slid smoothly from his trousers, and he just stared at it for a few moments, running his hands over it, stroking it. His eyes lifted from the belt, and scanned his bedroom wildly, his gaze finally settling on the heavy-duty ceiling fan rotating lazily above him. He scrambled up the ladder of his bunk bed, pausing as he reached the top bunk. He adjusted himself, balanced, and stood, eyes fixed on the plastic ceiling fan.

He raised a hand, and yanked sharply on the fan's chain, stopping the blades from rotating. Solemnly, he strung his belt around the fan's main shaft, and then placed the resulting loop of leather around his neck. He closed his eyes, savored a few, final breaths of earthly air, and jumped from his bed. The makeshift noose caught him. He gagged, panicking instinctively, before calming himself.

With every moment he hung, his own heartbeat grew louder in his head. At first, the throbbing pulse in his temples was a simple annoyance, nothing too horrific. But after an eternal half a minute, the lub-dub beating seemed to shake his entire body, each pulse rippling up his spine and echoing in his skull. He opened his mouth to scream, but predictably, no breath came.

And then the belt broke.

A felt a snap above him, and an overwhelming, animalistic relief as the belt loosened its grip around his throat. He plummeted five feet to the floor, landing in a dazed heap. He panted desperately, his oxygen-starved mind forgetting its mission of suicide.

Several minutes passed in which A just slumped there, defeated, unsure of what to do next. Nothing had changed, he eventually rationalized, except for the fact that he hadn't quite been able to kill himself. So it must still be done.

A weapon. That was the next logical step. His mind was working at an almost horrific pace, and he stood, hands trembling fiercely. He unlocked his bedroom, staggering into the main hallway. His eyes darted around, and he broke into a run, for no reason other than to scrub off the extra adrenaline.

Watari had hunting rifles in his office. Of course. The old man loved to hunt.

A abruptly turned back towards the office, racing down the corridor. He paused when he reached Watari's door, pressing an ear up to the wooden frame. Silence. His hand jiggled the doorknob, and he cursed. Watari wasn't in; he had locked the door.

His hand slid to his pocket, and he produced his wallet, rifling through it hurriedly with his index finger. He found a fake credit card, undoubtedly a prank of some sort from long ago, and slipped it into the door's latch. He shifted the card around, then lifted up suddenly, and pressed in on the door. It opened.

A stumbled into Watari's office, a fresh wave of adrenaline pounding through his veins. He scanned the room, eyes settling on a glass case above the caretaker's desk. It proudly displayed an antique Winchester rifle, the barrel dusty from disuse. Breathing shallowly, A scaled Watari's desk, to stand at eye level with the weapon. He drew back from it for a moment, before throwing the bulk of his weight into a punch, shattering the glass display case. The shrapnel showered him, and he was vaguely aware that his hand was bleeding, but all of that was irrelevant now.

…Or so A thought.

There were two major flaws with A's current plan. One, which was apparent as soon as he tried to lift the rifle, was that the gun was simply too large for someone to shoot themselves with. The second, which A had given even less consideration to, was that he had no ammunition. So he found himself covered in broken glass, bleeding from the hand, with a rather noticeable friction burn around his neck, and a still beating heart.

Suicide was proving difficult.

After a second look through his wallet, A managed to locate another plastic credit card. He began a quick sweep of the office, in search of anything resembling a gun closet. The closest thing he found to a safe was a wooden chest in the corner of the room, under a window. Evidently, it was just for decoration, as it was unlocked and empty.

Panic began to flash to frustration, and A found himself tearing through Watari's desk drawers, breaking their latches, throwing them furiously to the carpeted floor, grinning nightmarishly as their contents spilled out. He cursed to himself, hissing hateful sentence fragments under his breath.

And then, in amongst the angry blur of Watari's desk, was sudden salvation.

As he pulled the fifth drawer from Watari's left file cabinet, a metal clang could be heard. Not really processing the noise, A dumped the drawer out onto the floor with the others. Something apparently heavy thudded to the carpet. Curiosity overcoming rage, A leaned in to inspect the object.

It was a pistol, loaded with three rounds.

Gingerly, A picked it up, as if testing the very fact that it was real. He held it in his right palm, his left fingers tracing the barrel, and examined it closely, feeling a surge of terror at the steel's icy touch. There was something about holding a live weapon… Death was ultimately the consequence of suicide, regardless of method, but the thought of hanging himself didn't terrify A in the slightest. No, it was the gun itself that was scary. The solid, real, finality of it all.

He took a shaky breath, and cocked the gun. He couldn't afford to back out now.

He glanced towards the door to Watari's office, checking for any bystanders. None were present.

A could hear the roar of his own blood in his ears, and his entire body shook with terror. He briefly considered a few last words, but his throat ran dry, and he decided it didn't matter.

His eyes fixed themselves on the doorway.

Almost hoping someone would walk in.

Hoping someone would see him die.

He slowly lifted the gun to his temple, and moved his finger to the trigger.

And he quietly shot himself.

The next few milliseconds of A's life were never recorded in his mind. His brain had been splattered by fragments of his own skull, and he could no longer truly process what he saw. But his brain stem survived for a few seconds longer than he anticipated, so the vital functions of his body – his vision, pulse, and even a gasping breath or two – carried on longer than his personality did. And so his eyes kept watching as he died.

Shaking. The floor. Movement. Everything in comical slow-motion. B's shoes. B's pants. B's shirt. B's eyes, widened in shock. B's lips, parting oh-so-slowly into a silent scream that A wouldn't live to hear.

Darkness.

* * *

B's voice cracked sharply as he shrieked, dizzying panic suddenly engulfing him. The scream continued until his lungs were painfully empty, and he gasped, gulping in more air, before his breathing became a series of horrified pants. A few droplets of blood speckled his sleeves, and he collapsed to his knees, weak from hyperventilation. He managed to let loose another howl, the dread and shock wrecking his voice.

"_Aaaaaaaaaaeeeey!"_

He wheezed as if sobbing, but no tears came, and he fell forward onto his hands and knees. Desperately, he crawled towards A, who lay in a sprawled heap on the floor.

A's blood drenched the beige carpet, and stained his once gorgeous dark hair. His striking jade eyes were glossy, and stared emptily up towards B, the last moments of animalistic panic frozen in them forever. The wounds, so revolting B couldn't bear to look for more than a moment, were directly above his right and left temples. His skull had broken into a gory mess, a few fragments grotesquely poking out from under the skin or deforming the shape of his head. Blood and a watery fluid flowed lightly from the gashes, widening the puddle of blood below A's head. A pistol was clutched weakly in his right hand.

B reached suddenly for one of the discarded drawers of Watari's desk, and was violently ill, a freakish part of him taking comfort in the pain. Tears finally welled at his eyes, and then began to pour at a surprising speed, and his entire body shook with the force of each sob. He cried until it hurt, until it sickened him further.

He just saw A die.

He scooted towards A's bleeding corpse, shock and panic overwhelming him. Gingerly, B pulled A close to his chest, and hugged him tightly, sobbing as the blood seeped into his t-shirt.

His friend's body was still _warm_.

B cried into A's chest, relishing the familiarity of his touch. A was horrifically limp in his arms, but B shut that out, pretending he was alive, pretending nothing had changed. Minutes passed like hours.

But when A's warmth had faded, and his body lacked even the slightest trace of his former vitality… It wasn't until then that B really realized his friend was dead. Gone forever. Nothing more than a lifeless mass of flesh and bone.

He began to panic.

Words formed through B's tears, and he spoke to himself, as if A could still hear him. "Why did you leave me? Oh, God, oh, no… A… How could you? No… How could I miss something so… I could have stopped you… Someone… could have stopped you…" He paused, eyes slowly scanning the room and settling on A's pistol. "How am I supposed to live… without you…?"

He released A, and crawled over to the weapon on all-fours, unsure if he could stand. The gun was much heftier up-close, and he picked it up carefully, as if it would fire at the slightest touch. He checked the magazine, and found it still contained two live rounds.

B had never before considered suicide as a possibility. No, he would probably die in an accident, or of age or illness. But taking his own life? It seemed unimaginably foolish.

Until that moment. In that traumatized haze, suicide was… a clear option.

An escape.

A way to end it all here, and save himself the pain of being alone again.

Euthanasia.

B cocked the gun.

He held it to his temple, as he had seen A do only minutes ago.

His eyes flicked back to A's body, clouded with sorrow.

"A… I'm sorry to throw away my life like this. But, if I have to be alone again… I'd rather just save myself the trouble. Forgive me."

Resigning himself, B pulled the trigger.

He felt a vicious, throbbing surge ripple through his skull, pain overwhelming him. The breath was knocked from his lungs, and his entire body recoiled from the blast. His head was racked with agony, and he collapsed, darkness closing in around him. He lay in a disorderly slump beside A, and quietly succumbed to the pain.

* * *

((**A/N:** _Forgive me; I never use songfic, but I have a soft spot for the DK's. The song, by the way, is called "Straight A's".))_


	6. survival

B was faintly aware of the passage of time, but little else. He struggled to open his eyelids, his mind a sedated, semiconscious wreck. His vision was incredibly blurry at first, and the bright lighting was a painful change from the darkness of sleep. Slowly, his eyes began to focus, and he became slightly more self-aware.

He was in an overly well-lit room, completely devoid of color and largely unfurnished. A couple plastic chairs sat against a wall, but the room was totally bare, which struck even a lethargic B as odd. He noticed that he was lying down, in what appeared to be a hospital bed. An IV needle protruded from the back of his hand, connected to a bag of clearish fluid by a small tube.

It was then that the pain returned. B's head pounded, agony pulsing through him with every heartbeat. He groaned, running a hand through his own hair in an attempt to relieve his headache. His fingers brushed a gauze pad covering his right temple.

And suddenly, his memories came flooding back. He had shot himself in the head. Point-blank range with a pistol, right into his brain. Yet he was –or felt- very much alive. He let out a gasp as the realization hit him, tensing under the blankets of his bed.

"Oh… my God…"

Just like that, the haze of his headache cleared, and he gave his surroundings serious consideration for the first time. Everything looked as it should – plain, but not scary or paranormal. Like a particularly stringent hospital, not like Heaven, Hell or some grotesque space in between.

Had he truly survived a bullet to the brain?

He sat up, a new wave of nauseating pain pulsating through his skull. Desperately, he turned to face the doorway to his room, and shrieked.

"_Nurse!_"

The door opened after a second or two, revealing a disheveled male nurse clad in pure white scrubs. His mousey, tousled hair fluttered in the air conditioning, and his eyes were wide with concern. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Calmly, B questioned him. "Please tell me where I am."

"Gibbs Juvenile Psychiatric Center." He pointed to the badge on his lapel. "I'll let Dr. Hunter know you're awake."

B nodded, hiding his horror. "Thank you; that's all."

Grateful to be dismissed, the nurse fled, fiddling with his buzzing pager. As soon as he shut the door, B grew tense. A "Dr. Hunter" had apparently been treating him – with what, B hadn't the slightest idea. He raised a hand to touch the gauze at his temple, pressing in on the wound. It hurt, but the pain had dulled slightly.

_…So, I passed out, after trying to kill myself… Oh, God! Did I suffer brain damage? If I shot myself successfully, but survived… Oh, God, no…_

The door to his room opened, interrupting his thoughts. B's hand dropped instinctively into his lap, and he adjusted himself to face the doorway, his strength fading.

A doctor stepped in, lab coat fluttering behind him like a cape. He was a heavyset, middle-aged man, his thinning blonde hair combed unattractively over his bald spot. His eyes were bleak and empty, much like the hospital, and were a sickly bluish grey. Like the other staff members, he was dressed head-to-toe in white, but all of these details were secondary to B. No, the doctor's defining characteristic was his huge, slightly rodent-like smile, his teeth shining scarily in the hospital light.

The man – one _David Jonathan Hunter_ – turned the full force of his grin on B, staring deeply into his patient's eyes.

"Hello, Beyond."

B nodded slightly, letting his expression go blank in an effort to mask his apprehension. "Hi."

Hunter approached him, extending a hand. "I'm Dr. Hunter, and I'll be taking care of you. Do you have any questions for me?" The smile widened, turning reptilian.

B took his hand hesitantly, giving it a weak shake before dropping it. "Yes, actually, I do… Why am I here, and how did I get here?" Keeping himself calm and collected was proving difficult, but B managed to pull it off.

Hunter pulled a plastic stool over to his patient's bed, sitting down to be at B's eye level. Though his voice was calming and sympathetic, his smile never wavered. "When Watari, your guardian, found you, you were unconscious, and lying next to a shattered revolver. He believes that you tried to shoot yourself, but the gun misfired, and blew apart. Thankfully, none of the shrapnel hit you, and you only sustained a small laceration and a minor concussion." He paused, taking a long glance at the ceiling. "Someone up there must be looking out for you. But, now, for the bad news."

Hunter flipped open the chart at the foot of B's bed. "Watari has placed you under 5150, which just means you have to stay here for a while. We're not going to do anything weird to you; we just want to make sure everything's okay. Does that make sense, Beyond?"

He nodded, slowly. "Fifty-one-fifty… Involuntary psychological commitment. You have me on suicide watch?"

"That's one way of putting it. But this can be a positive experience, you know." Hunter chuckled slightly, as if his cheer would counteract B's sullen frown.

"Am I _on_ anything right now?" B tried to convey his urgency while remaining unresponsive.

"Oh, no! Of course not. Tylenol for the pain, but that's all." Hunter leaned over to B, and gently ruffled his hair, in a supposedly comforting gesture. B's skin prickled, and he raised his shoulders defensively.

A was the last person to do that to him.

"Please don't touch me." He closed his eyes in a long, drawn-out blink.

"Alright, alright. Not the touchy type, I see." Hunter giggled, and stood, turning away from B. "I have to go check on my other patients now, but I'll send a nurse in to tend to you. I'm sure we'll get to know each other quite well, Beyond. Maybe we'll get to be friends."

"Yes…" B managed through gritted teeth. "Friends."

He waited until Hunter had left to scream into his pillow. This was bad. Horrifically, irreparably bad. If everything went perfectly, B would eventually get to leave this place, maybe with a therapist of some sort, maybe not. But that was the ideal scenario.

_But I do know that that kind of admission can seriously fuck a person up, no matter how sane they were to begin with_

As long as they didn't find anything wrong with him, he would be okay.

And so B knew, within hours of waking to this nightmarish new world, that he was not going to be okay.

* * *

B hadn't realized he had fallen asleep until he woke. The experience was horribly disorienting; the same feeling of lost-child panic flowed through him as he sat up, ebbing only as he recalled where he was. B yawned and rubbed his eyes, weary and exhausted. As his vision cleared, he noticed a nurse absently tending to his IV.

_Helli Martha Gertrude_

_8 7 22 21 7 8_

Nurse Helli Gertrude was not a pretty woman. Her white scrubs clung unflatteringly to the rolls of fat above her belt, and her calves threatened to pop the seams of her pants. Her cheeks sagged, and her lips were frozen in a permanent scowl, thick wrinkles nearly disfiguring her already unattractive features. Her eyes, a glazed-over grey hue, blinked lazily behind her glasses, and her boy-short, spiked hair was splayed haphazardly over her scalp. She looked up from the IV, sensing B's stare, and attempted a smile. She seemed sincere, but her teeth were so crooked and wrecked, it looked terrifying.

B forced a reciprocal grin. "Hello. You're my nurse?"

She nodded and grunted, flipping through B's chart.

"So… If I wanted to leave…"

"You'd need a chaperone. A parent, sibling, guardian…" She flashed the smile again. "Or someone the hospital finds trustworthy."

B shivered slightly, unnerved. "No, I mean, if I wanted to be discharged.

Nurse Gertrude tapped his chart. "Ohh… Hon. You're on 5150. You're ours, at least for tonight. Get comfy."

B cursed inwardly. "When will I be released?"

"Depends." The nurse snickered to herself. "I'm Gertrude, by the way… You need anything else, or can I go?"

"No… No, I'm okay, thank you." B nodded, covering a yawn with his hand. He paused, waiting until Gertrude was only inches from the door to his room. "How long do _you_ think I'll be here?"

She didn't look back at him. "Too soon to tell. A day or a year."

* * *

Time passed slowly in Gibbs, endless hours blending together in B's mind. He kept himself entertained as best he could – solving quadratic equations in his head, counting to 200 in Japanese, watching his IV drip slowly into his veins. As his head injury cleared, he regained some of his former physical coordination, and he paced the length of his room. Briefly he entertained the possibility of leaving, to explore the hospital, but quickly decided against it. He was, at least, safe in his room, but he knew naught of the horrors beyond his doorway.

His perception of time had been skewed, and what felt like a week was, in fact, two days. He suspected that they did that on purpose – to keep him dependent, to quell his suspicions. They were his enemies, for the time being. One of them – that nurse, Gertrude - would occasionally pop into his room, to feed him or refill his IV. He never touched the food, out of fear they were drugging him; the IV provided everything he needed to survive.

On the third day (or what B approximated to be the third day), Hunter came to visit.

* * *

"How are you, Beyond?" asked the psychologist, producing a memo pad and pen from his back pocket. His rodent-like grin punctuated the question.

B fidgeted on the edge of his bed, drawing his knees up towards his chest. "Fine."

"You aren't eating, and you never leave your room. You don't seem fine." Hunter's voice dripped with rehearsed concern. "Is there something bothering you?" He enunciated slowly, and used a condescendingly childish tone.

"I am not a child, Doctor," B hissed, his patronization infuriating the teen. "Do not speak to me as such." He paused. "I don't trust you. I don't trust anyone here. Therefore, I avoid contact with you and the other members of the staff."

Hunter's eyes widened, as if hurt by B's words. "Why don't you trust me?"

"Because…" B stopped himself, cringing at the immaturity of what he was about to say. "Because you want to hurt me."

"Why would I want to hurt you?" Hunter scribbled something into his memo pad.

"Because you probably think I'm insane." B cracked his neck. "Can we just skip to the Rorschach tests or something like that?"

Hunter's smile wavered for a moment. "…I'll cut to the chase, Beyond. You are here because you are a danger to yourself. You did try to kill yourself, correct?"

It was no use lying to a man of his profession. "Yes."

"Would you ever do it again?"

"I can't see the future." B shrugged slightly.

"Why did you do it?" Hunter continued writing, flipping pages occasionally.

B narrowed his eyes. "I plead the fifth."

"Why? You're not in trouble."

"Because you have no right to know. As I said before… I don't trust you."

Hunter's grin lapsed completely for a moment, his eyes steely and hateful. "…Alright, Beyond. But know that hiding things from me… implies them.

B snarled with rage, completely hysterical. Logic only went so far. "Look, I did it because my best friend, the only person I've ever cared about, the only person I've felt even the slightest attachment to, shot himself in the head, and I watched the bullet blow his fucking genius brains out! Now, you tell me, Doctor, do I sound fine to you?"

Hunter just smiled. "No. But I can fix that."

* * *

When night fell, B dreamed.

His subconscious mind expressed his most intimate desires, his deepest pleasures, in a way that was safe from the prying eyes of the Gibbs staff. He dreamt of A, mostly. The electric feel of A's kiss against his once virginal lips, the addictive, erotic pleasure of bare skin against skin. How A would breathe down his neck, kissing him gently but craving more, and how B would succumb, giving in to temptation, never looking back. How they would wake to the sound of A's alarm clock, and how they would ignore it, too entranced by the memory of the night before. How they had fallen so deeply in love, and how it would stay like that forever.

In dreams, death was less of a hindrance.

* * *

((**A/N:**_ So sorry if this chapter is kind of shoddy, I just didn't want to keep that cliffhanger around. If you have any suggestions, please, for the love of God, tell me. (I've had a falling out with my betas.) Thanks for sticking with this story, since you've kept reading through six eternal chapters. You guys are awesome. Just lemme know you're out there. Review. Please. And I don't mean just you, AishiExcel, though you're a shining example.))_


	7. experimentation

The doctors proved themselves human on Sunday, six days after B's admission. They let him leave for A's memorial service. But, even as he slipped into his funeral outfit (which consisted of his only black article of clothing, a long-sleeve tee shirt, and a well-worn pair of jeans), he was consumed by a wish for vengeance.

He took solace in having someone to blame. But Watari was careful to avoid visiting in-person whenever possible, perhaps in an effort to hide from his accuser. It was all the old man's fault, B told himself. It was all Watari, who was blind to the obvious behind those stupid thick glasses. Watari took the brunt of his hate, his depression, his fury. As he should.

But B knew too much now to look at Wammy's as a home. To him, it was a slaughterhouse, a nightmare. And Watari was all too aware of that. Too cowardly to reveal the true nature of the Second L Program, he deemed B insane and sent him off to an asylum. That was B's understanding, anyway – whether he truly was sane or not was of little concern to him.

Nurse Gertrude walked him to the hospital doors, his IV trailing behind him. Her bulky frame swayed with every step, and her presence was less than comforting, but at least Hunter was too busy to chaperone. B was weak, and he struggled to keep up with Gertrude's lazy pace, but she showed a brief glimmer of mercy by holding the door open for him. He stumbled out into the overcast day, taking the hospital parking lot in, not knowing if he would see it again after today.

A familiar black limousine had pulled up to the wheelchair exit ramp. The backseat window rolled down, as if beckoning B inside. After an exhausting trip down the ramp, the teen pried the door open and tumbled inside the car, Gertrude following reluctantly.

The ghostly characters floating near the driver's seat caused acid to rise in B's throat. _Quillish Charleston Wammy._

Panic flooded his veins. He had to get out of the car. _He had to get out of the car._ He began to squirm from his seat, only to be blocked by a sitting Gertrude. She had just fastened her seatbelt, and had closed the limo's left-backseat door. Realizing that he couldn't negotiate over her in his current condition, he spun to face his own door. No sooner than he had clutched the release handle, Watari locked the car, and B was trapped inside. He was thrown back into his seat as the limo accelerated, and let out a small whimper as his neck slammed into the headrest. Only now did Gertrude seem to notice his plight, and she gingerly detangled his IV from his seatbelt.

He sighed, and collapsed back into the car seat, the adrenaline rush effectively wearing him out. Helpless, he stared blankly out a window, watching as they passed through a small suburb.

An uneasy, formal silence hung over the limousine. It lasted until they pulled into the driveway of Wammy's House.

"There is a bouquet in the trunk if you would like it, B," Watari mumbled as he parked.

B didn't reply. A soft rain had begun to dampen the windows, and he thought it fitting; a bright, sunny funeral wouldn't do A's memory justice. Mute as ever, Gertrude shifted herself, shoving open the car door and snapping her seatbelt loose. She stood from the limo ungracefully, her flabby form swaying in the slight breeze. After steadying herself, she extended a hand to B, who took it disdainfully. He was yanked from his seat, his IV tipping over and tumbling awkwardly from the car.

As Gertrude re-adjusted his IV, B smoothed his shirt and scanned the eerie skyline of Wammy's. A sick nostalgia flooded him, his emotions so intense that they actually began to cancel each other out. The fact that he was here wasn't particularly interesting, nor his short-lived freedom from psychological captivity. But the nagging idea that today was A's funeral… It was almost too surreal to believe.

Gertrude had finished with him, and she led him by the hand, following Watari (B chuckled grimly at that; it was the nearly-blind leading the nearly-blind). They entered Wammy's House, shuffling solemnly through the stuffy corridors. After a few minutes of what seemed like aimless wandering, Watari showed the caravan to the main dining hall.

The hall was packed with Wammy's kids, each dressed in their dark Sunday best and seated chapel-style in rows. The funeral actually looked legitimate; the Wammy's lunchroom was originally the surviving half of an ancient church. At the back of the massive chamber was a coffin and a few pounds of flowers, along with an intricate wreath and a few candles. _In Memoriam _was scrawled in delicate calligraphy on a banner that hung from the ceiling.

Looking dismal and out-of-place, B padded meekly down the aisle separating the two sections of benches. He suddenly felt the questioning stares of a hundred children, their disapproval burning like acid. The air was buzzing with whispered rumors. Silent and stripped of his dignity, B approached A's coffin, Watari and Gertrude blending smoothly into the background. The IV needle tugged at his wrist, and he cursed it, sending gasps through the ranks of younger children.

He did look the part of crazy mourner, they all thought. His hair was frizzed, he was still attached to his IV, and he walked with a characteristic slump. Maybe those silly stories were true. Maybe Beyond Birthday had lost it, just like A.

He stood over A's coffin for a few eternal seconds, just confirming that it was, in fact, reality; that he was awake, not trapped in some horrific nightmare. When that truth made itself unavoidable, he broke into angst-ridden tears. Still utterly silent, he cried over A, letting the heartbreak and grief out with every breath. The other orphans just stared, watching the grim spectacle without empathy.

A minute or so passed before B collected himself enough to speak. His woe boiled to seething contempt, the feeling of his emotions switching gears all too familiar. He spun from A to face Watari, who was watching mildly from the back of the hall. B took a few spiteful steps towards him and pointed, his voice cracking severely as he screamed.

"_You! This is all YOUR FAULT! _You have _no_ right to be here. You don't care about A, and why should you? He's just a failed experiment. And, thanks to you, that's all he'll ever be."

"B," Watari replied, his tone even. "I realize that these last few weeks have been difficult, but you don't need to make a scene."

He curled his lips back into a snarl, hissing with rage and taking a few more steps. "You could never understand what A was to me! He was more than a friend – he was a lifeline. He gave me a purpose, a new lease on life. I _loved_ him. I _LOVED HIM. _ He _died_ for you. _And you can't even shed a fucking tear!?"_

B turned to face his captive audience of Wammy's residents. "Don't these children deserve the truth, Watari? They'll understand someday, I have faith. But how many more will you send to their deaths, striving to be L – no, to be _above_ L? How many funerals will you preside over, just to tinker with your latest invention? I assure you… I don't know. But I never want to find out."

He paused, collecting his thoughts. "Children of Wammy's, heed A's silent warning. Strike down the Second L program, and question your superiors. Ask if L, your idol, your example, your purpose, is a title worth suffering for – you will suffer, I can promise you that! Refuse to see things as L wants you to see them. Only then… will my best friend have died for a reason."

Watari was solemn, shaking his head wordlessly. His expression was grim, as if he was mourning not only A's demise, but B's as well. After a long silence, he motioned to Gertrude, waving her towards the door. Obediently, she turned to B.

"Time to go."

He narrowed his eyes. "Oh, no. You're crazy yourself if you think I'll go back there." He gestured at her dismissively, raising an open hand to her and letting his arm fall to his side. His gaze never left Watari.

"As for you…"

He paced towards the old man, a vicious smile growing on his lips. His eyes held a glimmer of true madness. He cracked his neck, screamed, and lunged for Watari, fingers curled into claws.

"_I'll rip your fucking eyes out, so you can see how blind you are!"_

Almost at once, he felt the bulk of Gertrude's body thrown haphazardly upon him. She had tackled him, her lab coat draping over him like a sheet over a fresh corpse. He was knocked off-balance, and toppled to the floor, landing a few feet from Watari's shoes. In an instant, she pried his hands behind his back. His hospitalization had left him physically weakened, a disadvantage he hadn't anticipated or prepared for. The feeling of defeat all too familiar, he struggled, cursing and writhing. Her grip held, and she pinned him to the floor.

A moment later, he felt a jab of sharp, unnatural pain, something he was able to identify as an injection near his shoulder. Tranquilizer drugs flooded his senses, numbing them, and he felt himself slipping away. His body twitched uncontrollably, his breathing in shallow pants. He gagged. The world spun around him, and, as the darkness began to close in, he let out a final, horrific shriek. Throughout the ordeal, Watari managed to stand perfectly still. The last thing B was able to process before blacking out was the old man's soft, condescending voice.

"Now, now, B. You're upsetting the other children…"

* * *

White. B was so sick of white. White sheets, white beds, white walls, white skin in white uniforms. And, naturally, what he awoke to was more of the same.

He was lying down, his IV dangling above him. Painfully bright surgical lighting shone down on him, and he squinted his eyes, his headache intensifying. Instinctively, he tried to sit up.

Something held him. He panicked, and jerked upwards, to no avail. Craning his neck, he stared down at his chest, terror quickly spiking in his veins.

They were restraining him. Thick leather belts crisscrossed his chest, binding him firmly to his bed. He struggled vainly for a moment or two, finding that he was completely immobile.

Why were they restraining him?

Gertrude approached his bed tentatively, seemingly out of the blue. She stared down at him, her bulky being looming over a captive B. She sighed for a moment, then shook her head, almost apologetically.

"You couldn't behave, could you? …Ehh, not your fault, I guess."

She turned away from the bed for a moment, to a nearby tray table. B could barely see it, but took a mental note of the terrifying supplies it held - most notably, a vial and sterile hypodermic needle. Callously, her look of human-like pity quickly vanishing, Gertrude unwrapped the needle, and filled it with clearish liquid from the vial. Her movements grew robotic, as years of training kicked in and morality wavered.

They were going to medicate him.

B writhed in horror, desperate to escape. He clung to the childish hope that enough thrashing would free him, but the bindings held firm. He panted, and his blood roared in his ears, true terror overriding all else. He grunted and cursed, hysterical with fear.

_Oh God oh God no no no no oh God please no don't let them please god have mercy don't let them don't I haven't done anything wrong don't let them drug me_

His vision blurred, and he grew lightheaded, watching helplessly as Gertrude edged closer to his IV. He screamed with fright, eyes wide. Tears streaked his face, and he heard his heartbeat freeze. Cold and uncaring, Gertrude slipped the needle through the faux skin of the IV, and injected B.

His muscles spasmed suddenly, his entire body thrown into uncontrollable convulsions. He gagged on his own saliva, animalistic panic overtaking all coherent thought. His gurney shook with the force of his throes, and he stared up at Gertrude, helpless. He shook and shuddered for minutes, the agony of the contractions unbearable, before Gertrude reached for another hypodermic. She emptied it into his IV, before taking a cautious step backwards, to watch B's pain in silence. A miniature eternity passed before the muscle relaxants began to take effect, and B's eyes slid closed, his body and mind utterly ravaged.

* * *

Hunter stared blankly at B, taking occasional notes as his patient vomited. B sobbed with hatred as he was sick, nurse Gertrude obediently holding a bedpan to his face.

"I'm sorry, Beyond. But you have to keep taking your meds."

B wiped his lips, his nausea briefly fading. He sniffled, unable to restrain his tears. "Please… Please don't give me more drugs… Please, I'm begging you, as a human being, don't inject me again." He motioned to Gertrude to bring the bedpan close again.

Hunter sighed, feigning sorrow. "You are here because you are socially unfit. You have proven that you cannot thrive in mainstream society. This is the treatment for such a condition. I'm sorry that you suffer side effects, and your dosage will be smaller next time."

"You…" B paused, coughing. "You're trying to break me… Make me lose my mind. You'll just flood me with drugs, until I do exactly what you fuckers tell me to."

"Beyond," Hunter asked calmly, jotting down a few extra notes. "How long do you think you have been here?"

"A week, maybe eight days." As sickness overcame B again, his fury receded.

Hunter shook his head softly. "Six months, Beyond. You've been on antidepressants for the last four months or so, and antipsychotics for your hallucinations since last month. You're sick now because a nurse gave you an overdose."

"Was I sober for A's funeral?" B barely managed comprehensibility, his shoulders shaking with each sob.

Hunter's eyes were dead. "Sorry; I don't know." He stroked B's hair gingerly, forgetting his dislike of the gesture. "Probably not."

B felt a new wave of nausea, and ducked away from Hunter's hand, pulling his knees up to his chest. He closed his eyes, and yanked his blanket up over his head, praying for sleep or death to take him.

* * *

((**A/N:** _Shitty excuse for a chapter, I know, but both of my exes have been harassing the hell out of me, and, like I said before, I no longer have a beta. Critique. PLEASE. I'm entering a contest soon; I need all the tips I can get.))_


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